Ho Ho Hooters (a Christmas backbLOG)

She swirled her purple pen across the napkin, signing her name with a heart and caressing it as she delicately placed it near the edge of our table.

"Hi, My name is Sasha, and I'll be your Hooters girl for the evening. Can I get you something to drink to start off?"

I never thought I would hear these words coming out of anyone's mouth let alone on Christmas day, let alone at Hooters. Yes, you read that right. Hooters.

I took off for Topeka Kansas with my father to catch a 4:30 showing of Sweeney Todd on Christmas day. We were on a tight schedule and our plans were thwarted after my father was pulled over by a police officer for speeding. The officer only gave him a warning seeing as it was christmas and all.

We got to the theater 15 minutes late and the next show wasn't until 7:25, so we had two hours to kill. We discovered that everything was closed for christmas including McDonald's which shocked me. I thought for sure that they pumped out artery clogging mystery meat 365 days a year.

Split between going to Denny's and Hooters, I chose the option that involved hot wings and booze.

I expected to see women writhing on greesy poles, oiled up like roasting pigs, bits of flesh and torn edges hanging as old men drooled and stuffed dollars into cleavage and crevices like a reverse ATM machine.

The reality was much more pedestrian. Hooters is a "family" restaurant or so it seemed on christmas day. It was no more scandalous than a Brooklyn dive bar. The food was good. The waitress was nice. Yes, she was wearing a santa hat. Yes she had a nice "rack" and a low cut neckline. I highly recommend the wings, so if you stop through Topeka, say hi to Sasha. Let her wet your napkin with her purple pen. Tip her well and tell her that Robert sent ya.

Cocks gone wild! True Stories of barnyard manlove.

Photo by Carrie Thomas

Ok, so I made the title a little more sensationalistic than it had to be.
Last night I had a short chat with my mother who is fighting off a rather nasty sounding chest cold.

As previously posted, I visited the family farm in Kansas back in the fall and helped my father build a larger chicken coop. Recently my parents got a 2nd rooster.
Well, the juicy gossip folks (Yes, you heard it here first) is that rooster #1, aka Little Jerry is gay. Sorry Jerry for outing you. I know how hard it can be to live as a homosexual rooster in Kansas. Little Jerry has been seen "humping" the new rooster.

This news delighted me, as it gave me the chance to educate my mother on prevalance of homosexuality in animals. She was completely unaware.

btw, who knew that 1/4 or all black swans are moes?(as in ho-moes)

ah, black swan, I wonder where you are?
ah George, You save my soul.

Transmissions from Dialup

I write to you this late evening from Northeastern Kansas where I have been forced to heed my own words and "unplug".

My cellphone has been rendered inoperable due to T-mobile's lack of care for the residence of this rather unpopulated state. My usual status of constant connection to highspeed internet has been taken away.

My parents have purchased 30 chickens which are currently laying 7 eggs per day. I ate 3 of them this morning for my breakfast, the eggs not the chickens. I commented on the state of these poor chickens which have been cooped up in a rather small pen. Somehow this escalated into a protest on my part.

I ended up in the pickup truck with my father traveling to one small town where the lumber store had apparently closed. I suppose they have been outsourced to India or China, but then again I'm pesimistic. We finally found a lumber store that was open 50 miles away and picked up lumber and chicken wire.

I spent the rest of my day with my father digging holes for posts, leveling them and building the frame for an extended chicken yard, which I have proclaimed will double the egg output.

We ended our day pouring concrete round the posts and drinking beer as we basked in the glory of the beautiful frame we have built. We then discussed my father's missionary trips to Peru and Ecuador. Sometimes I wonder if I could ever be as great as this man.

I wrote a song in the truck. Here are the lyrics. They're hokie. I don't care.


The rooster's out there crowin' and struttin' with his legs
It's time to feed the chickens and gather up the eggs.
This small town's really strugglin' but it's stronger than you think.
You can see it from the highway but you'll miss it if you blink.
It's time to feed the chickens and gather up the eggs.
throw some bacon on the skillet and some boots upon your legs.
The factories move to china and the people move away
but the ones who really love this town are out there bailing hay.
there's fence that needs a mending and there's cattle needing fed
they work till they're exhausted then they fall into their beds
till the rooster starts a crowin' and struttin on his legs then
it's time to feed the chickens and gather up the eggs.

These are my roots people.

My father said something interesting which somehow became profound. The only thing you hear out here is the ringing of your own ears. He's right. It's so loud. The city traffic, the subway, all of it. It rings in my ears. I cannot find silence even here where it is silent. K is in Canada. I am in Kansas. Tomorrow I finish the frame and pull the chicken wire round the posts and feel the satisfaction of a job well done. I will gather the eggs after I've eaten eggs for breakfast. It all is in balance and yet I miss my boyfriend. I miss the noise of the city. At the same time I'm content and happy out here on the praerie, hearing the coyotes howling after sunset, sitting with my father drinking beer and smoking cigars. There is a simplicity that I miss, yet there is a complexity of noise and clatter that I need to fill my scattered head.